


Work, Bitch.

by Rednaelo



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Exhibitionism, M/M, Voyeurism, how do robots strip if they don't wear clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rednaelo/pseuds/Rednaelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deadlock is no stranger to rev clubs. But this stranger is certainly getting him revved up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work, Bitch.

**Author's Note:**

> pfgfhfghtfhht short little dinky thing because??? Rodimus belongs in a strip club. 
> 
> For the bae. <3

                The extra twenty shanix was enough to get the bouncer to stop the silent-glaring-and-unmoving-barrier bit.  The bot slipped the cash into his subspace and gave Deadlock a single nod before stepping aside and admitting him to the thrumming darkness of the rev club. Deadlock recalibrated his optics once he was inside, scanning the area for an empty spot to settle in. This wasn’t the first time he’d been to a rev joint, but it was the first time he’d been to Pink Plasma.  New territory necessitated surveillance. Exits were easy to pick out, not including the one he just came through.  More bouncers inside, all armed, though not visibly so.  Huge bar. Decent attendance.  Crowded enough that the main floor wasn’t fucking freezing like these places always had to be, but not so much that Deadlock couldn’t find a good place to sit.

Though the house was dark as the distance between stars, the stage glowed with ultraviolet and LED lights.  The dancer working the main platform was in the middle of his performance, which Deadlock ignored in favor of locating a place to sit.  He settled in one of the round booths with the high-backed seats, sprawling against it and propping one pede on the table in front of him. A lithe little minibot with chrome-detailed armor glided up to the booth as soon as Deadlock had made himself comfortable watching the show that was already in progress.

“What can I get you, big bot?” the little one hummed  into Deadlock’s receptor, bending over to give Deadlock a tantalizing view of the glittering fiber optic lights between plating and cables.  Deadlock smirked and tilted his helm a little to whisper for a glass of high grade. He was treated to a flirty giggle and a caress of soft digits along his arm as the little bot slid away to the bar. Deadlock only gave the departure a cursory glance, focusing his attention back on the stage instead.

Pink Plasma was relatively new.  And while Deadlock hadn’t originally planned on setting foot inside the place—he had his favorite spot back in Kaon, after all—literally no one in his platoon would shut the fuck up about it.  They went in droves in the middle of the decacycle when the door price was low and the floor servers got their chance to be in the spotlight.  Overall commentary was that the newbies were entertaining enough even though rumor had it that the V10s were so hot that customers were coming home with scars from where their overheated armor had welded to the seats.  Revved indeed….  Deadlock wanted to see it for himself.

The song he walked in on the middle of was finishing up.  His little server skated back and closed Deadlock’s fingers around a tall glass of Engex, taking the tip that was offered and thanking him with an indulgent shimmy of that pretty chassis before he went skipping away. Deadlock chuckled. He took a sip while the applause quieted beneath sudden darkness and the excited announcement booming over the sound system.  Apparently Hot Rod was up next, whoever that was.

“Well, put on a show for me, Hot Rod,” Deadlock muttered behind the tilt of his glass. “Let’s see what you got.”

Optics focused.  The crowd shoved against the stage was cacophonous with whistles and horns beeping, cooling fans roaring in unison.  Deadlock just sniggered and shook his head.  The music began, beat pounding out sharp and hard like an overclocked fuelpump.  Lights strobed sharp in time; the crowd grew even more restless.  And then there was a silhouette amidst the continuous flashing, backlit and posed to entice. Someone howled with want in the audience. 

Those pedesteps were silent but fell in perfectly in synch with the backbeat while the melody surged forward and guided the revver out onto the stage.  The lights blasted on. And there – with his arms gradually lifting towards the ceiling and his body undulating in unabashed imitation of a hot frag – was Hot Rod: sex on stabilizing servos. 

Deadlock’s optic’s widened, the glass slipping a little in his slackened grip. He drank in the mech on stage instead, starting with that gorgeously bright smile.  That was a smile that belonged only to people who knew that they were hot slag. That was a smile that had earned a Prime’s ransom with only a little touch of a glossa to those glistening lips.  It went all the way to his unreal blue optics, half shuttered as if the greatest physical pleasure was just to have all those gazes caressing his chassis.

An equally captivating chassis, at that.  Plates of ultrapolished gold and crimson urethane, finished off with solid gold spoilers and, holy Pit, Deadlock glimpsed the tantalizing revolution of spinning rims at his wheels.  From the sleek tips of his helm crests to the sparkling chrome of the exhaust pipes on his pedes, Hot Rod was a sight meant to stun. He brought his arms down and lowered his chin and for a moment, his optics settled on Deadlock sitting in the darkness.  A wink.  Lips pursed to push a kiss.  And then he danced.

Hot Rod dipped down low, his hips gyrating along to the music’s sensuous beat while the crowd around him reached out, roaring, littering the stage with shanix as he danced for them.  Above their bellows, humming along to the song, Deadlock could hear the very recognizable whirr of cooling fans contrasting the growl of a V10 engine’s ravenous revving.  

“Fraggin’ Primus…,” Deadlock muttered, optics wide, processor stuttering.  His armor was suddenly _disturbingly_ hot; the purr of his own engine kicked up as if his body could recognize the need to answer Hot Rod’s audible arousal. He lifted his glass to his lips and took a long drink, unblinking as he watched the revver bend over and present his undulant aft to the audience.  That was cause for more applause.  Hot Rod wiggled appreciatively to entice the spectators to try and bounce shanix off that perfect paintjob.  Deadlock was glitched on a murmur of frantic cursing that streamed from his vocalizer, unbidden, when he wasn’t slamming his drink.

Hot Rod rolled back up again, his spinal strut bending in a svelte ripple, breastplate pushed out, before he rotated back around, hips bouncing playfully.  He smiled like starlight.  His internal mechanisms _had_ to be mic’d; there was no way that engine could rev that loudly over the both the music _and_ the crowd’s lustful crowing.  But that was the point of a rev club, wasn’t it?  This wasn’t an unfamiliar concept to Deadlock.  But, Primus, it was like Hot Rod’s chassis was right against his audial receptor, humming just for him. 

He found his glass completely drained the next time he went to gulp it down.  And that was a good enough hint to Deadlock that he needed to dial it back.  He set down the glass.  He vented deeply, shut his optics, and pushed back from the edge of his seat where he’d found himself.  Arms relaxed across the back of the booth.  And only then did he look back to the stage, though his engine still thrummed like an echo to Hot Rod’s every enticing call.

Hot Rod wasn’t on the stage, though—which explained the sudden upsurge in crowd-roar—because he was descending the stairs that led down into the house.  Bouncers lined his path, keeping back anyone that would seek to get their servos on him.  And he was strutting, hands on his hips, smirking like he owned this joint, right up to Deadlock’s table.  Though that elicited quite vicious thunder from Deadlock’s engine, he simply smirked back, fanged dentae catching the glitter of the spotlight trained on his sudden company.  He did not move.  Deadlock did not reach or lean towards the revver as he swaggered on up, licking his lips. 

The bouncers were doing a good job of keeping generous space between the crowd and the booth where Deadlock was sitting. But he wasn’t paying any attention to them anymore.  Hot Rod has slinked up the seat and straight onto the tabletop, continuing his routine for Deadlock’s enjoyment only.  Or so it seemed to Deadlock.

Those blue optics shimmered down at him, hands sliding all the way down from neck cables to the curves between his thighs.  Deadlock’s gaze stuck there at the streamlined seams of Hot Rod’s panels as he realized that the mech was _leaking_. Steady drips of pearlescent-dyed lubricants trickled down those glittering curves as Hot Rod’s hips rolled.  Deadlock’s mouth flooded with oral solvents, though his intake felt as dry as dust.  And when his gaze stroked all the way back up that body to capture Hot Rod’s eagerly flashing optics, the spotlight fled.  The space faded into darkness as the song shifted to a throbbing refrain.

But Deadlock could still see Hot Rod perfectly.  Because he had undercarriage LEDs beneath all his plating.  The gorgeous glow of energon-pink illuminated Hot Rod as he swayed and bounced on Deadlock’s table, engine roaring with every surge in the beat.   He sank to his knees, bracing his servos behind himself as his hips pushed and rolled up into Deadlock’s line of sight.  The luminous flush of those LEDs accentuated another gush of lubricant from behind Hot Rod’s panel. Deadlock’s own system oozed eagerly in response, his whole body throbbing, cables tight with tension, as he struggled to maintain his relaxed posture and detachedly-pleased expression.

He would frag that mech right there on that slagdamned table if it wouldn’t get him thrown out forever.

Deadlock watched glimmering gold fingers dip between wet thighs as Hot Rod sat up again and smeared the mess he made up his panel and all the way to his lips. Another wink.  Deadlock didn’t keep back his snigger, though it was hidden well under the snarl of his engine.  He wanted the taste of that bot’s glossa on his own.  He wanted the taste of that bot between his lips any way he could get him.  He’d swallow him down whole….

The song ended with a thundershock sizzling into the roar of the audience’s appreciation. The lights came up again to show Hot Rod on all fours on the table, face only a kiss away, venting hard with parted lips. Deadlock met that gaze, hiding his desperation behind a well-practiced mask. Only the heat of his exventing and the slow swipe of his glossa against the jags of his dentae demonstrated that lust.   Hot Rod sighed out in a blissful smile, hot air smoothing against Deadlock’s finials as the revver rolled his helm back and laughed aloud, almost afterglow-giddy.

Deadlock smirked and very smoothly reached in his subspace to pull out the fattest wad of cash he’d ever brandished at anyone. He flashed it at Hot Rod.

“How much for a repeat performance in my berth?” he purred while the announcer hyped up the audience for the next performer.

Hot Rod’s optics shuttered halfway, pleased.

“I’ll do you for free if you buy me a drink.”


End file.
